


Scene Queen

by darkrosaleen



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Embarrassment, Feminization, M/M, Panties, Roleplay, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 10:11:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13715478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrosaleen/pseuds/darkrosaleen
Summary: "Hi," Pete says. Patrick catalogs his body language, from the soft slope of his shoulders to the tilt of his hips to the way he's biting his lip. "I'm a big fan. Think you can introduce me to the lead singer?"





	Scene Queen

Pete almost manages to keep it a secret. But Patrick needs to borrow a phone charger, and it's buried somewhere in the festering laundry pit that is Pete's duffel bag. Patrick is so busy making exaggerated retching noises that he grabs two handfuls of colorful, delicate fabric before he realizes that he's holding women's underwear.

Patrick drops them like they're made of fire ants. "Pete, why do you have a bunch of panties in your duffel bag?" He's so deep in his own embarrassment that he doesn't realize what a dick question that is until after he says it.

Joe saves him with a cackling laugh. "Because Pete's a slut."

Patrick's face somehow gets even hotter. Pete, who's been hunched over in the bench seat, turns around to give Patrick a toothy grin. "You got me. I'm the Glenview panty thief, stalking the Midwest and leaving a trail of scene girls with no underwear."

Oh. They're trophies, and Pete's a slut because he has so much sex with women. Patrick feels young and stupid.

"Well, they're all hideous." It's not true, but it feels good to snipe back. Patrick yanks the charger free and stuffs the offending garments back in the bag. He tries not to think about the way the fabric feels on his fingertips.

Pete snorts. "Of course they're ugly, they're all crumpled up. They look better on."

The natural response, _then why do you have them_ , dies on Patrick's tongue. There's a logical explanation; Pete never made a secret of the fact that he shops on both sides of the department store. 

Patrick stops that thought right in its tracks. He can't sit here thinking about this with all his bandmates watching and his hand buried in Pete's dirty laundry.

Patrick's sick brain chooses this moment to wonder if the panties are dirty. What they could be dirty _with_. 

"Going to find an outlet," Patrick stammers, trying to stand up without revealing the half-chub in his jeans. He ignores the weird look Pete gives him as he departs.

-

The thing is—and Patrick regularly rants about this—even a guy as slutty as Pete doesn't get called a slut. It's not a guy word. Applied to a guy, it means more than just having a lot of sex. It means wantonness, seduction, wanting too much and being wanted in return. Someone laid out on his back, legs spread, soft and open and inviting.

Patrick figures that Pete wears girl underwear about thirty percent of the time—tiny, dainty scraps of fabric that peek out from his jeans whenever he bends over or lifts his arms. It's maddening, and Patrick feels like an idiot for not noticing sooner.

Pete seems to have a complex coordination system: red lace with a black Van Halen tee, baby blue bows with a navy polo, a fuchsia whale tail with a white v-neck from the girls' department. Red and black on loud days, virginal pastels on quiet days, like a kinky mood ring.

Patrick notices shifts in body language too. Sometimes Pete is all rambunctious boy, and sometimes he's something softer, something sweet and sinuous and a little dirty. Sometimes the delicate scrap of lace above his jeans is a loud fuck you to gender norms, and sometimes it's an invitation, tempting Patrick to touch. Sometimes it feels like both versions are on all the time, and the difference is just Patrick looking from a different angle.

He goes out back after a show and finds Pete leaning against the van with a smirk on his face. "Hi," Pete says. Patrick catalogs his body language, from the soft slope of his shoulders to the tilt of his hips to the way he's biting his lip. "I'm a big fan. Think you can introduce me to the lead singer?"

Patrick goes hot; he isn't sure if he's being made fun of. "You don't want to talk to him, he's really awkward." He crosses his arms over his chest. Pete's blocking the van door. 

Pete's grin falters, and looks down at the ground. "That's too bad, he's really hot. I tried to throw my panties at him, but the asshole bass player caught them instead."

Patrick's blood rushes between his ears. "He's not an asshole," he says, although the fact that Pete is standing here saying these things kind of proves the opposite.

Pete laughs at the ground. "Yeah, he is. He jokes around and pretends to be other people because he's scared to say how he really feels."

Although he's speaking as himself, Pete's body language is still in girl-mode. Patrick tucks that away for later. "I don't know. Being someone else can be realer than being yourself, sometimes." He's surprised by how much he means it.

Pete folds in on himself, becoming even softer. "Can I come inside your van? I'm really cold in this skirt."

Pete's wearing normal boy jeans. Patrick can almost see it, though, just from the way Pete's holding his legs. Patrick finds himself touching Pete's shoulder as he moves past him to get the door, gentle and proprietary. 

Pete crawls onto the bench seat and lies down on his back, giving Patrick a shy smile. There's a sliver of his belly visible, light next to his black tee and dark jeans and dark lace panties. Patrick feels like his skin is vibrating with want.

"You're so pretty," Patrick says. It's what he'd say to a real groupie. "Did you dress up just for me?"

Pete whines. "Yeah, dressed up nice. Wanted to fuck the lead singer." His hips are grinding against the seat, tight little circles that push his shirt up his stomach. "I'm kind of a slut," he says with a grin.

Patrick's whole body goes hot. Settling between Pete's legs, he circles his hand up to Pete's hip and back down his thigh, denim warm and rough on his palm. "You're so pretty and soft. It's like you're begging me to touch you." Pete's hard-on is poking up through his jeans, and that's kind of slutty too. Patrick wants to slide up and rub his dick against it. 

"I'm wet," Pete says, and Patrick nearly bites through his lip. "Jesus fuck, your hands. I got my panties all wet just from watching you play."

It doesn't sound like Pete's awkward attempts at acting. Patrick has to dig in his mind for the character Pete's playing: some scene chick in a short skirt, messing her panties in the crowd. He reaches up and flicks the lacy hem of Pete's panties, snapping the elastic against his skin. "Want to show me? I want to see them." Patrick isn't really acting either.

They rearrange themselves so that Pete can wriggle out of his jeans. His panties are dark purple lace, with light blue bows and matching elastic. They manage to be slutty and sweet at the same time, his hard cock trapped and contained by fragile lace. 

"Fuck," Patrick breathes, cupping Pete with his hand and feeling it jump against his palm. The lace is scratchy and warm, damp with Pete's sweat. It should be grosser than it is. "You're so beautiful. Pretty panties on a pretty girl."

Pete whines. "Fuck, Patrick, your mouth. You should eat me out."

Patrick jerks his head up. "Eat you out?" It feels like Pete is caught up in his own headspace, and Patrick isn't sure how to follow him there. "You mean eat your ass, or eat your—your pussy?"

Pete lets out a surprised laugh. "Uh, just lick me. Between my legs." He rolls his hips up, pushing into Patrick's hand. "You know how to make a girl feel good, right?"

Pete's dick is so hard, distending the lace and pulling the panties out of shape. Patrick can see his pubes creeping out from the elastic. It should be vulgar and obscene and filthy, and it kind of is, but it also makes Patrick want to kiss every inch of Pete's skin and tell him how pretty he is. 

There's an obvious place to start with that one. Pete really is wet, leaking a little damp patch over the head of his cock. Patrick leans down and licks over it, the lace wet and pungent on his tongue. Pete lets out a shivery breath and pushes his fingers through Patrick's hair.

"This is what you do with a girl, right?" Patrick's voice is coming from some deep, rough place in his chest. "You lick her clit? You lick and lick until she falls apart on your tongue, and she's soaking wet and it's all over your face." He looks up at Pete, taking in his heavy eyes and parted lips. "Are you going to mess your panties for me? Get them all wet?"

Pete groans. "Jesus _Christ_. Awkward my ass." He gently scrapes his fingers against Patrick's scalp. "I'd tell you to put your mouth to better use, but that's a goddamn lie."

Patrick blushes. "I mean, I don't have to use my mouth." Pete makes an offended noise and shoves Patrick's head down, a move that makes Patrick shiver a little. He always liked it when girls pushed him around during oral.

Patrick doesn't really blow Pete. He couldn't get his mouth around it without taking the panties off, and he wants to preserve the magic of this, the way the dark, jagged lighting softens Pete's edges and blurs the line between male and female. Patrick licks Pete the way he'd lick a girl, quick flicks of his tongue, pulling the head in his mouth and rolling his tongue around it. 

Pete comes with a shudder and a gush of warm fluid, flooding Patrick's tongue with the taste. Patrick pulls his head back and looks down at the ruined panties, soaked with Pete's come. Pete looks wrecked too, breathing hard and staring at Patrick with unfocused eyes. 

"Let me," Pete says, fumbling for Patrick's jeans. He clumsily pulls Patrick's dick out and starts jerking it, shuffling his legs so that Patrick's aiming right at the wet spot. Patrick whimpers when he thinks about Pete's panties having that much come on them.

"You're into this," Pete says with a grin that's more amused than dirty. Hot, filthy embarrassment starts to coil in Patrick's stomach, making his cock twitch. "You're some kind of panty sniffer, huh? You like how wet and sticky they get? Do you want to bury your face in there, smell how wet I made them? What if I took them off and shoved them in your mouth?"

Patrick comes with a stifled whine, gripping the back of the seat for dear life. Most of it goes on the panties, but there's some on Pete's stomach, shining on the ink of his stupid hot tattoo. Brain fuzzy with endorphins, Patrick leans down and licks it off. Pete makes a soft noise and pets Patrick's hair. 

Patrick settles down with his head pillowed on Pete's stomach, jeans tangled around his knees. "I really liked those panties," Pete whines. He's still playing with Patrick's hair, though, so he's not too mad.

"I'll buy you more," Patrick mumbles into Pete's belly. He reaches out to touch the delicate lace waistband. Up close, it looks like leaves. "Pretty girls should get pretty things."

Pete sucks in a breath that Patrick feels under his head. "Do you really think I'm pretty?"

It's such an idiotic question that Patrick has no response, and in the pause, he realizes that Pete's asking a different question altogether. He turns his head and kisses Pete's navel.

"Of course I do. You're a pretty girl, and a pretty boy, and a pretty anything else."

Pete hugs Patrick closer. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

Pete's stomach trembles under his head. Patrick lays a reverent kiss to the bat heart, then to the little bow at the center hem of the panties, then grabs Pete's hand and kisses the sweaty center of his palm. "Only very special girls. Pretty ones with pretty dicks."

Pete chuckles. "That pretty dick is all yours if you buy me new purple panties."

"Deal," Patrick says with a grin. He has awesome taste in women.


End file.
